One Winter Morning

by Isabelle Broom

  ‘Wow,’ she says, her eyes wide.

  ‘Brown seals like those have got fingernails, just like us,’ I tell her, wiggling my fingers and feeling hopelessly touched when she follows suit. ‘They use them to climb up on to the rocks.’

  ‘Will they bite me?’ Tui wants to know. She looks so serious as she says it that my heart almost breaks.

  ‘They can be a bit stroppy, Tu,’ says Kit, who has just appeared behind us, ‘but you’ll be OK as long as you don’t get too close.’

  ‘They’re extra aggy at the mo,’ Griff puts in. ‘It’s mating season.’

  As the boat pulls away and heads out into open water, Tui rubs her stomach and announces that she’s hungry enough to eat three sandwiches, two chocolate bars and a seal, prompting a laughing Kit and me to venture down one deck in search of lunch.

  ‘So,’ he says, as we join the back of a very long queue leading up towards a kiosk, ‘Tui has not stopped going on about that riding lesson you gave her. Allie reckons you must be a pro?’

  ‘Tui is much better than she gives herself credit for,’ I reply honestly. ‘You said she first sat on a pony as a baby, right?’

  ‘I think it pretty much goes with the territory if you’re Bonnie’s daughter,’ he says, not noticing me wince. ‘But as you know, she’s nowhere near confident or able enough to go out alone yet. Her balance is a bit off – it’s part of her condition.’

  ‘She’s so great,’ I enthuse. ‘It feels so unfair that she has all these issues to contend with.’

  ‘I know,’ Kit agrees, his expression pensive. ‘She’s such a sweetheart, despite it all. She never lets her condition stop her from doing what she wants. Bonnie’s raised her so she understands her limitations, and she accepts that she’s not like most of her friends.’

  It’s the casual ‘Bonnie’s raised her’ that stings the most, and I’m assaulted by a wave of both sympathy and disgruntlement. Of course I feel sorry for Tui, but I don’t want to make any allowances for the difficulties that Bonnie must have faced. Dismay has always been my go-to emotion where my biological mother is concerned, but now those clear waters are being muddied by all this new information, and these people, and this place. I’m not even sure how I’m supposed to feel about Bonnie now – or if I want her to make an appearance. Can I still resent her when everyone else seems to love her so much? Is she really as great as Kit makes her out to be, or has she simply done a good job of fooling him? Maybe he doesn’t know her as well as he thinks he does. And then there is Tui – can I have affection for her that is not linked to our shared mother? And will I lose one if I refuse to forgive the other?

  I am still mulling it over an hour later, long after lunch has been eaten, chasing the same questions around in my mind as I stare out at the view across Milford Sound. Perhaps somewhere in this dark, churning mass of water, I will find the answers I crave. I don’t want to have to face all this on my own – I want someone else to take over and tell me what I should do, and how I should feel.

  And not just anyone, I realise, closing my eyes as it comes to me.

  I want my mum.

  21

  Anna’s memory book lies open on the bedside table – it’s the first thing I see when I open my eyes. The leather is cracked along the spine, and the ribbon bookmark frayed at its edges. I remember that Anna used to play absent-mindedly with it as she scribbled away, caressing the soft material with the fleshy part of her thumb.

  She had busy hands, my adoptive mother, and each finger was laden with the rings that she had collected during her years spent travelling. Her favourite was the vintage diamond engagement ring that David had blown his first proper month’s salary on, but I always preferred the jade stone. When she gave it to me on my twenty-first birthday, I was so touched that I cried genuine tears of joy.

  After we disembarked from the ferry at Milford Sound four days ago and got back on the coach, Griff explained that the early Maori people had discovered jade stone in the area, although they called it pounamu, and that spiritually, it was very important to them. Anna never told me where she got the ring from originally, or perhaps I didn’t think to ask, but now it feels important to know. This memory book does not go back as far as the year she gifted me the ring, sadly, but I have decided to begin reading it again anyway, mostly because of how much I am missing her.

  It was difficult at first, seeing her neat, rounded letters. She had a funny way of curling the tails of her ‘Y’s and ‘G’s, and her buoyant spirit has been captured by her fondness for an exclamation mark – or three. That was Anna, though – always laughing, forever positive, perpetually bubbly. I had not realised what a light she was, until that glow was snuffed out, leaving David and me stumbling around in the darkness that followed. Reading her little observations, quirky remarks and insightful musings is bringing back the mother I miss, and although it hurts when the inevitable loss comes knocking, I have discovered over the past few days that the gain is more than worth the pain.

  I have not been back to Koru Stables since Sunday. Tui is at school during the week, and despite Allie welcoming me last time, I doubt she would appreciate me turning up again for no apparent reason. I know how busy a yard can be – and Kit and Allie are filling in for Bonnie as well. It still feels utterly bizarre to me that my biological mother ended up flying to England the very same day that I came out to New Zealand, and I have been over the possible reasons for her trip multiple times in my head. I checked in with David yesterday, but he is adamant that he has not heard from her. What could she be doing – and with whom? If I wasn’t such a coward, I would ask Kit to find out for me, but then I would have to explain why I couldn’t simply contact her myself. Plus, I am actually beginning to dread the thought of her returning and finding me here – the result of that is too uncertain, and her reaction could unravel all the calm I have gathered around me since I arrived.

  It is such a mess, this whole bizarre situation, yet I can’t deny that some good has come from it. Namely meeting my half-sister and, my subconscious whispers, it has been nice to be around horses again, too.

  I have no plan for my day, just as I hadn’t for the past few, but actually, I quite like that. Back at home, I am always aware of David down in his study, clacking away on his keyboard as he sends poor old Evangeline off on yet another time-travelling adventure. His action fuels my own inaction, and makes me feel doubly guilty for doing nothing. I did try to work as a receptionist at Hayley’s mum’s dentistry practice in the village, but all the patients recognised me, and the pity in their eyes quickly became too much. I managed three weeks, before retreating to the safety and solitude of my bedroom.

  Here, however, it’s different. Nobody knows me, nobody expects anything from me, and nobody but me gets to choose how much or little I achieve in my day. As a result, I have found myself exploring Queenstown and the surrounding area tirelessly – I even toyed with the idea of booking a ziplining trip, for heaven’s sake.

  Thinking that I might take Anna’s memory book down to Queenstown Gardens for a day of reading, I am just chucking a few essentials in my bag when there’s a knock at the door.

  ‘G’day.’

  I stare up at Kit, my first thought being that Bonnie must have returned earlier than expected, and that maybe she is even here with him now, in the passenger seat of that red jeep parked down by the kerb, come to tell me that I’m not wanted here, not in her town and not in her life.

  I must have stuttered out a few words of response, because Kit’s friendly expression swiftly changes into one of bemusement.

  ‘What was that?’ he asks, folding his arms in the same way he did at the stables on that first day. They’re so large – more like felled logs than human limbs.

  I cough.

  ‘Hey,’ I manage. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘Well,’ he begins, waiting for me to cease my awkward fidgeting, ‘I was supposed to be spending the day with Griff, but the big, yellow-headed idiot had to work. I was in the
area anyway, so I thought I’d pop by and see if you fancied a hike?’

  ‘A hike?’

  When did I turn into a parrot?

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’ Kit removes a speck of lint from the front of his grey T-shirt and drops it on to the wooden floor of the patio. ‘I’ve got the day off, and seeing as how you’re here alone and probably don’t know much about what there is to do around here, I thought I could show you around a bit, you know.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, tucking away an imaginary strand of hair and fiddling furiously with the strap of my bag. What is it about this man that makes my entire vocabulary vanish into a black hole?

  ‘Before I worked over at Koru, I used to be a tour guide like Griff, believe it or not,’ Kit explains. ‘So, I do know my stuff. And Queenstown has got a lot to offer – I’d feel damn awful if you’d come all this way and I didn’t help you to make the most of it.’

  It’s a very generous offer, but how will Allie react? Will she be angry if she finds out that the two of us spent time together alone, without Tui? The last thing I want to do is cause friction between them – especially not when they have both been so nice to me. But then, I can’t ignore the fact that it would be nice to have a companion for the day – and surely Kit would never do anything to deliberately upset his girlfriend? He’s too decent for that.

  ‘I guess I could,’ I begin, still hesitant. ‘I mean, as long as you don’t mind?’

  ‘You’d be doing me a favour,’ he assures me. ‘If I don’t have something planned for the day, I only end up in the boozer – or worse, back down at the yard, and then I’ll get roped into working. There’s a truckload of new wood chippings waiting to go down in the indoor school, and the paddock fences aren’t going to fix themselves.’

  ‘Only if you’re sure?’ I check again, and this time Kit blows exasperated air into his cheeks.

  ‘I’m very sure, right? Now, do you have any shoes that aren’t those girly stilts?’

  I look down at my wedge-heeled espadrilles.

  ‘These are hardly stilts,’ I protest. ‘I can walk in them fine.’

  ‘Along a catwalk, maybe,’ he drawls, rocking back on to the heels of his far more sensible boots. His calves above them are thick and laden with muscle, and he is dressed in simple cargo shorts and an ash-grey shirt.

  ‘If you’re really going to experience the best that Queenstown has to offer,’ he adds, ‘then you’re going to need something a bit sturdier.’

  ‘OK, in that case …’ I give in, leaving him on the doorstep while I venture back into the apartment. By the time I’ve swapped my beloved wedges for the deeply unattractive pair of chunky walking shoes that David insisted I pack and made my way back outside, Kit is standing down on the pavement, a rucksack slung over one meaty shoulder and a large bottle of water in his hand.

  ‘Much better,’ he says, appraising my footwear as I clomp down the steps like a Clydesdale.

  ‘I feel like a shire horse in these,’ I mutter, and Kit starts tapping the pockets of his tatty dark-green shorts.

  ‘Ah, bloody hell – I’m all out of sugar lumps.’

  ‘Funny,’ I retort, but I’m smiling.

  We set off in the opposite direction to the town centre, and even in my walking shoes, I have to jog to keep up with Kit’s huge strides. The incline of the road becomes increasingly steep the further away from civilisation we get, and after ten or so minutes, I have to stop and lean over to catch my breath.

  ‘You all right there?’ Kit asks, glancing over his shoulder.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I splutter, my hands on my knees as I try not to think about how red and shiny my face must be. ‘It’s just the heat – I’m still not used to it.’

  He regards me for a moment or two.

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ he asks again. ‘Because this hike is not going to get any easier.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ I insist, unwilling to appear any more unfit than I have already.

  Kit looks as if he doesn’t quite believe me, but he chooses not to comment, instead pointing ahead at a huge, overgrown hill.

  ‘We’re going up there next,’ he says, watching me for a reaction.

  I laugh, certain that he’s not serious, only to realise from his expression that he very much is.

  ‘All the way up there?’ I repeat, not even pretending to sound anything but aghast.

  Kit nods once.

  ‘Yep, we’re going to take the Tiki Trail and then head right the way to the top.’

  ‘How high is it?’ I want to know, but he shakes his head.

  ‘If I tell you, you’ll wimp out on me. And it’s not as high as it looks – you’ll breeze it. You’ll be skipping up there.’

  ‘I’m not some sort of mountain goat,’ I grumble under my breath, and Kit snorts with laughter.

  ‘No,’ he agrees, looking me up and down. ‘I reckon goats are way uglier.’

  As we continue towards the base of the hill, I find myself smiling away for no apparent reason. I must be more relaxed around Kit than I thought, and it’s heartening to know that the two of us have slipped effortlessly into the same game of banter tennis that I play with Billy. Back home, where everyone has known me for years and has witnessed my transformation from bubbly and sociable into brittle and closed off, I don’t feel one hundred per cent authentic with anyone – not Billy, not Hayley, and not even David, not one hundred per cent. If anything, my adoptive father is the person I feel least comfortable with. We were so close once, the three of us, in our tight family unit – but Anna’s accident has shattered the bonds between us, the same ones that I always believed to be unbreakable, and now I have no idea how to mend them. Kit knows nothing about this, or about the accident, or about me – not really. I can be a different version of myself with him, one that is perhaps more like the old me.

  I had an idea of how things would be when I reached New Zealand – how I would feel and what I would do and say – but never for a moment had I factored in a Kit or a Tui. I had envisaged getting some answers and finally putting a face to the empty space that I had in place of my birth mother, but I never imagined that I would make a friend or discover that I have a sibling. Kit has listened to and accepted me, and now he’s here, choosing to spend his free time with me, his friendship offered freely and seemingly without complication.

  It’s as if I’m beginning to wake up after a very long sleep, and for the first time since that awful day, I am able to be present in the moment again. I feel alive.

  22

  Bonnie

  Despite being as big a fan of parties as she was of wasp stings, Bonnie had been told that she must come downstairs and attend Tracey’s annual mince pies and mulled wine soiree. Her unflinching host had also insisted that Bonnie put on a frock for the occasion, giving her house guest the benefit of a pained expression when she wondered aloud what was wrong with her old jeans and oversized jumper.

  ‘If you don’t already know the answer to that, duck, then I can’t help you.’

  Now Bonnie was trapped between the arm of Tracey’s sofa and the pale, limp form of Mr Gregory from three doors down, who had breath potent enough to puncture a parachute and was wearing sandals with his battered corduroy slacks, despite the below-freezing temperatures outside. For the past twenty minutes, he had been talking earnestly about the properties of volcanic soil – a fact that was making Bonnie wish she had never told him where she was from. New Zealand had acres of the stuff.

  ‘It’s all about the nutrients and minerals, you see,’ he enthused, scooping up a handful of salmon blinis from a nearby dish. When he then started extolling the virtues of phosphates, Bonnie found herself sprayed with damp, fishy crumbs and, deciding that enough was bloody well enough, mumbled something about needing a top-up before politely, but firmly, shouldering her way past him.

  Once in the relative safety of the kitchen, she filled a glass with water from the tap and leant against the work surface to down the whole lot in three satisfying gulp
s. She was wearing the only dress she had brought with her, which was black, shapeless and had a hole in the right armpit – but Bonnie could not have cared less. Glancing at the clock on the opposite wall, which was shaped like a cat and had a swinging black tail in place of a pendulum, she reflected that at least now she had put in an appearance she could surely spirit herself back upstairs to the spare room and hide. The story was not going to write itself.

  ‘You all right, love?’

  Tracey had just bustled in for another bottle of fizz, and Bonnie jumped forwards guiltily.

  ‘I came for more snacks,’ she muttered, picking up a half-empty bag of tortilla chips.

  ‘Poppycock.’ Tracey pulled her chin down against her chest. ‘You forget how well I know you, love – you never were that comfortable around lots of people. Remember how your hair used to practically stand on end whenever the caff had more than four customers?’

  Bonnie went to protest, but she knew Tracey was right. She did hate parties, and concerts, and airport terminals – basically anywhere that you would expect to find a large number of people. How she had ever dealt with so many months in London, she didn’t know. Nowadays, Bonnie managed her crowd phobia by barely leaving the stables. Aside from the busloads of horse-riding tourists ferried in daily by Kit, not many people tended to pass by the yard. One of the things she loved most about her place of work was its remote location. Bonnie knew the names of everyone booked in to ride, so in theory, surprise arrivals were a rare-to-non-existent occurrence.

  England, in sharp contrast, felt like a minefield. Tracey lived in Kent, which Bonnie knew was many miles away from both Cambridgeshire, where Evangeline lived with her adoptive parents, and London, where everything had happened – but she still didn’t feel safe. Coming back here had made the intervening years fall away, and Bonnie felt increasingly as if she was reverting back into her eighteen-year-old self – that lost, scared and homesick girl who was so desperate to please and fit in.